


Just Between Yourself and I

by BrosleCub12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Halloween, Name-Calling, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Tea, bullying (past), character death (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5127107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’s never celebrated Halloween - not really. Certainly not over the past few years. He thinks there may have been times, in University, in his early years, when there was a kind of Halloween party or two – a chance to dress up and drink beer and mess around and in his case, buy the right kind of drug. But that had been pre-John.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Between Yourself and I

**Author's Note:**

> Happy slightly-belated Halloween. I wanted to write a little something but was working all weekend, so came up with yet another round of friendshippy fluff with Sherlock and John. Un-beta'd, so any remaining mistakes will be mine and there is a tiny bit of swearing and a little angst. As per, I don't own Sherlock.

*

It’s Halloween.

Sherlock had forgotten this. He doesn’t quite know how, but he had. It’s the 31st October, he realises that much, because Fireworks night is only days away. (He always remembers Fireworks night, now. Ever since John was…)

He’s never celebrated Halloween - not really. Certainly not over the past few years. He thinks there may have been times, in University, in his early years, when there was a kind of Halloween party or two – a chance to dress up and drink beer and mess around and in his case, buy the right kind of drug. But that had been pre-John.

The previous two Halloweens have been completely unmarked, he realises. Well, not that he and John really… anyway, last year he was in this flat with John, who was spending most of nights here, firstly on the sofa and then slowly graduating back towards his old room.

It had been. It had been _good_. Good to have John around again. Selfish – Sherlock realises this, deep down – but good.

And the year before that, he was being rescued by his brother and taken back to the safety of London and there had been that anticipation in his gut, getting ever-bigger as they drew ever closer to England: _in the next few days, I will see John again and it will all be alright._

(It hadn’t been. Not altogether).

He looks out of the window; sees children and their parents, dressed up in all kinds of garish get-ups, ringing on the bells of the surrounding houses in Baker Street. He wonders if anyone will ring  _his_ bell, or if children have been taught to stay away from that house with the strange man inside who solves crimes and has a skeleton for a friend. He wonders where John has gone; he’s glanced around the flat, called his name, but John is not there.

So, then.

He watches the children, dressed up as they are: a monster, a mummy, a witch, all stereotypical bandages and black pointy hats. Sometimes – every now and then – people he knew, people at school, would call him a witch. Then some of the others would sneer and say _How can he be a witch, he’s a boy_ and the perpetrator would shrug and say _witches are nasty and they know things they shouldn’t, so he’s a witch._ So there he was; he was a witch. Creative, he supposes. Even if he had wanted to be a pirate.

(He had little pebbles thrown at him for being a witch, he was splashed for being a witch. And later – not too much later - he was being called a freak.

He really needs to delete some of the things on his hard-drive, they’re just taking up space).

The flat feels very cold. He should put the heating on, but normally John does that. And Mrs Hudson – he tried shouting, but she wasn’t there, either. The whole house is silent.

Maybe he should lie down for a while; maybe he just needs to rest, maybe it’s just his bullet-wound playing up again. He’s been feeling a little more tired, ever since that happened - every day on a daily basis. Or maybe he should call Mycroft and get any new leads on this Moriarty thing; it’s been a long time, now, ten months and he feels like a sitting duck. And in the meantime, strange and frightening things are happening all over the country that have nothing to do with the date – oh, he and Mycroft and the government are doing all they can to stop them and in some cases they have succeeded. But it’s very, very difficult, all the same.

He’s not sure how long he can keep doing this. He’s not sure how much longer it’ll be before the cracks that feel as though they’re running right across his head burst wide open. He’s not sure –

‘Sherlock?’

He jumps a mile; well, exaggeration, but it feels like one, even to him, under the hand that John has placed on his shoulder and his friend steps back several paces, holding out a palm as Sherlock turns to face him.

‘Sorry,’ John says quickly, ‘sorry, I didn’t mean – are you alright?’ he asks apologetically; he has a bag in one hand, a shopping bag and Sherlock huffs, breathes. John had only gone out shopping, of course. It’s something he does every now and then.

‘Sherlock? Are you alright?’ John repeats, with a frown as he takes him in and Sherlock nods, finds a simple, ‘Yes,’ for him. John scrunches his face further, purses his lips, looks him over in that… doctor’s way he has.

‘Let me put this stuff away,’ he gestures to the shopping, ‘and I’ll get the kettle on.’

‘You don’t have to - ’ Sherlock begins; he feels a bit odd about this, knows John likes to feel useful in his way. But it’s been a very difficult year, for both of them and right now, he’s not sure how he feels about John trying to look after him right now when he really ought to just be -

‘Doing it anyway,’ John throws over his shoulder as he slides the kitchen door open, firmly and ending the protest. Sherlock stands where he is for another minute and then clears his throat, stepping into the kitchen after him.

‘Sweets,’ John says with a resigned air, holding up the plastic ASDA bag. ‘In case we get any kids dropping by; Mrs Hudson said that we might.’ He glances up at Sherlock as he unpacks. ‘Maybe we should put Yorick out, rather than a pumpkin.’ He offers up a small ghost of a smirk and Sherlock manages a very half-hearted ‘hand-gesture/uncomfortable smile’ sort of thing back, one to show he’s got the joke – and one that John doesn’t see anyway, as he turns away to get the tea sorted.

(Once, Sherlock would have protested at the skull being called Yorick; it was an old, odd sort of running joke in which John would say it just to annoy him and Sherlock would throw a strop and accuse him of having absolutely no imagination whatsoever – but now he just can’t. He just can’t be bothered, anymore. Maybe he’s just too tired).

He’s not sure what he can do to help and the alternative is just standing here looking uncomfortable so he makes his excuses and leaves, heads back into the lounge and settles onto his chair, taps his fingers on the arm as he purses his lips. The place is lighter now; it _feels_ lighter. John must have flipped the switch when he came in.

He doesn’t notice at first, when John brings the tea through – on one of Mrs Hudson’s purloined trays, thankyou very much – that there’s something else as well until John is holding it out right in front of his face; a shiny, orange… thing.

‘Oh…’ he blinks, reaches out to take it; it’s. It’s a grinning pumpkin head – oh, wait: it’s a chocolate pumpkin head with a brand name across the top, wrapped in foil. Glancing across at John as he sits down on his chair opposite, he realises that he’s got exactly the same thing.

‘Happy Halloween,’ John says with a shrug and Sherlock blinks at him.

‘You eat that,’ John adds; his voice is heavy with warning, ‘you’re starting to look like a skeleton, and frankly I’m getting a bit worried.’

Sherlock swallows. He doesn’t… he’s not sure. He isn’t. Hm.

‘You don’t. You don’t need to… to fret about me,’ he says, because John has enough on his plate. A year ago today, John was here, true - but still married to Mary.

And a year ago today, Mary was still alive.

John glances up from where he’s unwrapping his own pumpkin as Sherlock stumbles over the words, just slightly. He eyes Sherlock, head tilted, purses his lips, before he leans forward in his chair; gestures to Sherlock to do the same thing.

‘Couple of things: first, I will “fret” about you,’ he says, voice clear and rough all at once, ‘really as much as I damn well like. And you are going to eat _that,’_ he points roughly at the little pumpkin. ‘And you’re going to drink _that,’_ he gestures at the remaining mug of tea, still on the tray by Sherlock’s feet, ‘or I’ll just sit here until you do. And I’ve got all night, mate.’

He watches Sherlock for a long moment and Sherlock swallows; suddenly wonders at the slight dryness in his throat; when did he last drink anything today, anyway? He reaches down for the tea, tugs it up and takes a long, long slurp, eyes locked on John’s own unwavering gaze. When he does so, John makes a kind of approving nod and reaches out, puts a brief, careful hand to his knee as Sherlock lets the hot liquid slip into his system. _Oh, that’s nice._

John gives a sound that’s almost a chuckle and unwraps his own chocolate pumpkin. Sherlock follows his movements; unwraps this little gift that John brought him, for no rhyme and reason. It’s curiousity, more than anything, that makes him bite into it and he’s surprised; it’s a nice flavour and he quite likes it. It’s like a jolt to his system, somehow; it’s a reminder he hasn’t eaten all day and again, far from the first time, he thinks (in fact it’s a thought he’s had several times, over the span of several years): _it’s a good thing John is around to remind me._

There’s also, he realises belatedly, something inside the pumpkin that takes him by surprise; something small and _rattley_ that drops out and falls down his front, right inside his shirt and he gives a small ‘Oh!’, slightly startled as he digs under his buttons.

‘Oh, they’ve got Smarties inside them,’ John supplies helpfully.

‘What the hell….?’ Sherlock blinks before he gets to his feet to brush himself down with his free hand, shakes his shirt about; a few little Smarties fall right through it and down onto the floor, bouncing off his feet. John is sitting back in his chair, hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking as he chuckles silently into his hands.

‘Bloody - am I going to find these things in my underwear in two days’ time, John?’ Sherlock demands and John lets out a choked, _‘Pah-_ hahahaha,’ giving himself over to helpless giggling, hand over his face.

And just like that, Sherlock can’t help it; he’s laughing as well.

*

They don’t get any trick-or-treaters in the end, but they sit and slump together inside the flat, in their lounge and watch _Ghostbusters_ on Comedy Central, working their way slowly and steadily through the bag of chocolate buttons John had brought especially, their feet up on each other’s chairs. At around eight, Mrs Hudson emerges – she had been visiting her sister – and brings them sandwiches, ham and tomato, which Sherlock eats under John’s unwavering gaze. John wanders around, turns the heating on; makes more tea. Sherlock holds his refilled mug out and John clinks his own against it.

‘Happy Halloween,’ he says it softly, almost hoarsely; his grief still very much present, but he finds a smile for him all the same.

Sherlock smiles gently back and takes a deep sip of his tea, sighing into the mug at the sheer familiarity of the taste – one more small drop of heat to let into his bones, as his body begins to warm up once more.

*

**Author's Note:**

> The chocolate pumpkins in question can be seen [here](http://www.amazon.co.uk/Smarties-Pumpkins-box-of-24/dp/B005T0FZC4) (and they are yummy!) And yes, I will put my hands up; there's something about this fandom that brings out the chocoholic in me and has done for years. *shrugs* I want my characters to be happy, I guess. ^_^


End file.
